


it started with a vine compilation how did I get here esme I am a stain on the creative writing department

by b33pb33plettuc3



Category: Othello - Shakespeare
Genre: Angry Sex, F/F, F/M, Iago is a twink, M/M, Multi, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b33pb33plettuc3/pseuds/b33pb33plettuc3
Summary: Iago must be hearing voices. Voices that tell him he's flustered around the Moor, that he thinks the Moor is beautiful, and even to hold the Moor's hand! Iago is stupid. This is just his internal monologue and he's hella gay. Don't worry Iago it happens to us all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> They get it on next chapter. I'm too tired to write about dicks in excruciating detail atm. So much fluid to describe, so little time.

       It was really starting to piss Iago off. That subtle and continuous nagging at the back of his mind; steadier than waves against the shoreline of crete, more annoying than even Emilia. (And that was saying something) The thing was, even as he delighted in spinning Desdemona, and more so, Othello into a horrible, bloody web, he just couldn’t convince himself quite as to why. Of course he was royally teed that Cassio got promoted instead of himself, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. Which was all the more reason to conspire against the two, making him question himself like this! But the problem was soon to be dealt with. He was already moving into the final stages of his plan and feeling quite pleased with himself.

       Well would you speak of the devil. Or devils, Iago guessed. He could hear Othello and Desdemona talking down the corridor. It sent a stab to his stomach just to hear them! Quickly, to avoid being seen, Iago pressed himself into one of the wall’s many alcoves and listened intently.

       “Not now my sweet Desdemona. Some other time.”

       Ugh. Saccharine. Did they hear themselves talk?

       “But will it be soon?”

       Zounds! He hated her voice.

       “Very soon, because you want it.”

       That was it!

       Iago could not hear the rest of their conversation because he was so angry, the blood had begun to rush in his ears. He could not stand, _could not stand_ hearing them talk to each other all lovey-dovey like that. It was beyond disgusting. Iago had seen men with their heads cut clean off by Turks, but still nothing made his skin crawl cold all the way down to his toes like hearing them talk to each other did. _You’re flustered._ And there it was! That stupid little voice. He was just so angry that his cheeks were flushing, his ears red. That was all. The voice needed to shut up so he could plot what to do next. Luckily, he crammed it back down into whatever abyss of himself it had crawled out of and focused quickly. Iago prided himself immensely on his focus. Soon, he had cobbled together a plan. Once Desdemona had left, walking obliviously past his alcove, Iago slipped out smoothly as an eel and headed towards Othello.

       “My noble lord—” he began, but was immediately cut off when the Moor turned around. _Beautiful,_ the voice sighed and Iago was too taken aback to correct it. He had seen Venice’s general hundreds of times. Maybe even thousands! But every single time he looked at Othello’s face, he was shocked by the sheer strangeness of it. _That’s not what it is and you know it by now._ High cheekbones that caught the candlelight and shone contrasted sharply with deep skin. The angled planes that shaped his face were cut through with delicate blue swirls at the temples that climbed back like wisteria vines to the nape of his neck. Lips that held humour in their twists were opposed by the eyes only a man who had seen war could have. His features were so at odds with themselves, you had to stare at him for a bit. _That’s not why you stare._

       “What is it Iago?” Iago composed himself in an instant, the knave he was.

       “When you were wooing Desdemona, did Michael Cassio know about it?” Iago scratched his head casually, using the gesture to maintain the easy innocence of his question. In doing so, he glanced at Othello’s hand. _Hold it._ What? So the voice had taken to ordering him around. Out of the question.

       “Yes, he knew about it the whole time. Why do you ask?” Othello cocked his head when he asked, and skewed his jaw a little. Iago noticed this because Iago noticed everything. _Beautiful. Take his hand. Take it. Take it now. Ta—_ Iago cut off the voice by using the line he had already rehearsed in the alcove.

       “I was just curious. No reason.” _His hand is right there. Lace your fingers. Then your bodies. Take his hand._

       “Why are you curious, Iago?” His brow furrowed as what Iago was implying began to dawn on him. However, the venetian doubted he could get very far in his realization because (and this was completely out of his control) he lunged forward and grabbed Othello’s hand.


	2. funky time with Iago and Othello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know perfectly well what's about to happen 9w9 (and that's spit lube, fanfic-style)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think i can ever look Mrs. McKinley in the eyes again

       Zounds, he’d really done it now. But before he could run away and stab himself in embarrassment, before he had even realized he’d done it, he had taken Othello’s jawline in his free hand and gotten up on his tiptoes to kiss the taller man. By now, Iago wasn’t thinking. He was too surprised by his own actions, not to mention that his blood was rushing anywhere but his brain. It didn’t help when Othello flipped them, pressing Iago into the stone wall and deepening the kiss. All Iago knew at this point was the firm, warm pressure of the Moor and the increasing tightness in his trousers, when suddenly, Othello reached behind him and flung open a cupboard door, pulling Iago inside and shutting it with a click. The darkness made it easier to forget who he was and just who was beginning to pull down his ever-tightening pants. All Iago could register was heat and moisture, pain and pleasure. 

       It was a blur when Othello hoisted him up onto a counter and pressed his bent knees back towards his chest, exposing his erection and hole that tightened at the open air. He whined when the other man bent down and slid a moistened finger inside, rubbing his walls experimentally. Iago did not know how many fingers were inside of him when suddenly they were pulled out and replaced with something warmer and wetter, making his breath hitch. As it probed him with a hard, dizzying rhythm, the voice had to supply:  _ you’ve never felt this way with Emilia.  _ And damn, the voice was right. Iago hadn’t realized that Othello had had his tongue inside him until he removed his head from between Iago’s thighs and the venetian  _ moaned,  _ as if he were some pitiful, horny housewife! He thrusted uselessly into the absence, the general meeting him with something thicker that rammed into his ass. Iago would have laughed all the whole black ram metaphor if the wind hadn’t been knocked out of him. Over and over, the Moor rocked into him, his back hitting the wall with the force of it, little high pitched noises being forced out that Iago would have found humiliating under any other circumstance. With the speed and pressure of Othello’s thrusts mounting, Iago found himself angling his body to meet him, full-out moaning by now at the new sensations. 

       When Iago came, he didn’t realize that’s what was happening at first. Every other time he had come, it had been purely physical, a natural reaction to genital stimulation. But this was the first time he had actually enjoyed it, something he hadn’t even realized could happen! Othello reacted to Iago’s tightening, the arching of his back, the way he choked out the man’s name, and came inside of him with a final, deep thrust. Iago languished in a new contentedness he only thought he’d feel when the man inside him was dead at his feet. Maybe he could spare him. But Desdemona definitely had to die. 


End file.
